


Gravity

by theteacupprincess



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Everyone Is An Asshole, Everyone Needs A Hug, M/M, Not Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase Two Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteacupprincess/pseuds/theteacupprincess
Summary: Bucky is killed in Siberia by Iron Man and Steve is thrown in jail. Tony tries to make amends and repent--but it's too late.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. When the world stopped

_Something always leads me back to you… it never takes too long…_

“Tony, no!”

It happened so fast. One second, he was aiming his repulsor at Steve, the next, Bucky’s head is exploding because he got in the way to save Steve. He was seeing red figuratively—then literally. Because pieces of what used to be Bucky was now everywhere—on his faceplate, on Steve’s hair, face, mouth. It was gore. And it made the world stop.

But only for a second.

“B-Buck…” he heard the man on the ground gasp. His eyes met Steve’s. Glazed over with shock and disbelieve.

And then it was utter chaos. Because agents were storming everywhere, taking him by surprise. He never called for back-up, nor did he tell anyone where he was going. Ross must have tracked him somehow, his anger making him sloppy enough to not notice.

The agents immediately subdued Steve who was still on the ground. Not that they needed to do much. He was still frozen in shock, no doubt still questioning if he had witnessed what he just did or if it was just a nightmare. But it wasn’t. Tony was realizing it quickly too. He had killed Bucky. He had done what he intended to do in his anger.

He also broke Steve.

He didn’t fight when they pulled him up and handcuffed him with vibranium reinforced cuffs. He didn’t fight when they hauled him out of the bunker and into the helicraft that would bring him to the Raft. Where he would be kept in secrecy, no doubt. He didn’t fight. He just stopped fighting altogether. When they were trying his crimes in secret. When they were sentencing him for a bogus accusation. When they finally shut the door to his cell where he would stay until he’s served his sentence—or he’s fixed the Accords, which is his top priority now.

He would get Steve out. Because, dammit, now that he’s had time to calm down and think on what he has done, he knows he owes it to Steve.

They’ve all done things they didn’t want to do. Kept secrets that hurt each other. But he didn’t have to kill Bucky. It didn’t bring back his mother. It didn’t ease the pain of losing her. It only just made everything worse.

\---

3 YEARS LATER…

The window to his cell opened with a heavy pound. It normally shouldn’t. But his cell—every nook and cranny—had been vibranium reinforced to make sure it would be strong enough to withstand his super strength. Not that they needed to worry about that. He had no desire to fight.

“Rogers, someone’s here to see you,” the guard called out. He grunts but doesn’t move. He has no intention of getting up from his bed. Especially when the visitor finally steps up to the bars of his cell window.

“Steve,” the familiar voice was quiet but steady. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. He also didn’t care. The man had been coming and going for 3 years, giving him updates about the Accords and his case and things he frankly gave no shit about.

He did what he usually does—he ignored the guy.

“We’ve had an outbreak with the other super soldiers,” he continued. Like he cared to listen. Like he paid any attention.

“This girl, Katarina, she doesn’t get triggered anymore. We found a way to erase the trigger words in her head.”

“Good for you,” he replied mechanically, devoid of any real emotion, before closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. By now he was used to this charade. The guy would tell him things, he’d reply his non-committal and generic response, then the guy’s steady façade would falter and soon he’d leave, his head hanging low in defeat. He wasn’t really expecting anything different this time. Except that something did.

“I worked a deal for you. We can fast-track your release,” there was no mistaking the controlled glee in his voice. Like a parent excitedly telling their kid even though it was hard, they found the toy they wanted for Christmas after all. Or a travel agent proudly exclaiming “yes! There’s still one seat in that flight you really need to take!” He didn’t buy into it. Especially after the next words he spoke.

“We need your help though—” before he could stop himself, he pounded his fist on the wall of his cell, cutting the man off and making the place reverberate. His anger came in hot and raw, like a whip that hit an open wound. The guy behind the door grimaced and stepped back, trying not to let the fear in his eyes show. But as soon as it came, it was gone. Tempered back and put away in that same old place in his head that stores all the rage he doesn’t want to deal with anymore.

“No.” Simple. Direct to the point.

The guy hesitated for a moment. He must have decided to just drop the pretense and go for it because when he spoke, his voice was laced with uncertainty and disgust—like he didn’t really want to say what he’s about to say.

“Ross says you don’t really have a choice. We need to do this so you can get out of here faster.”

“Guess I’ll just stay here forever then,” he said, the venom in his voice dripping. “Or just kill me. It’ll be easy. One shot to the head. I promise I won’t dodge.”

He couldn’t see but he knew the guy behind the door paled. He could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest and he could smell the panic about to bubble out of him. So, he turned to his side and willed himself to sleep. It was easy. He was out in seconds. Nothing would wake him up, not until he wants to wake up, effectively ending the conversation.

Except that it didn’t end. Because several days later, he was being hauled out of his cell by a platoon of agents, all equipped to the teeth by powerful but unnecessary weapons—enough to subdue him. Unnecessary because he had no plans of escaping or fighting back. But it helped calm the agents because lame or not, truth is he could kill them all easily if he wanted to. But that’s the thing. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything anymore.

The travel from the Raft to the secret lab took close to 18 hours, with a lot of transfers and blindfolds and sound suppression helmets. They took a great deal of care not to give away anything, may it be the location, or the way to get there. He rolled his eyes. Again, not needed. Because he doesn’t care. And also, pointless. Regardless of how many twists and turns they come up with, his brain has already mapped everything out.

The lobby of the building they entered is bland. Gray walls, gray tiles, gray furniture and a middle-aged lady who seems to have a permanent scowl on her face greet their entourage. It was only when they get here that he was allowed his sight and hearing back. Not that he cared.

After a series of high-level clearances and whatnots he was ushered to the back of the building, presumably to where the project he’s needed is taking place. They passed by several rooms: several other undertakings ongoing. People in lab coats were everywhere, walking down hallways, talking inside rooms with glass doors and windows, running with some equipment of some sort from here to there. The lab was in full swing.

Which was a direct contrast to the room he was pulled into at the end of a long hallway. This one was quiet, with only the whirring of machines and quiet whispers filling the air. There was a chair in the middle of the room, with straps and cuffs meant to hold down whoever is sitting there. And right now, a young woman occupied it.

She was a mousy little thing. The way her shoulders were hunched down, the way she was trembling—it looks as if she’s trying to make herself smaller than she already is. And succeeding. She looked like a wet dog, eyes wide with grief and unshed tears. She looked pathetic and weak and—it shook him to his core, looking at her eyes. This look that was oh so familiar, despite the years. The look that haunted his dreams, right before it abruptly turns into a nightmare with blood spraying everywhere, getting into his mouth and drowning him.

It was easy to mistake this girl as harmless. But the toned muscles on her arms, the calculated movement she makes, even under duress, and the depth of her eyes are all familiar tells of a fighter.

Beside her is a scientist, holding a chart, quietly studying the girl. To his side is a small table with what looks to be a gun but is currently covered by a piece of cloth.

He turned to the scientist, his anger was curling off him and his hands quickly curl into fists. He heard rather than saw the agents assume position, ready to take him out at any moment. Smart move. Still not enough.

“Why am I here?” he asked, his voice low and threatening. It was Tony who answered. Tony who apparently was in the room but didn’t register—rather, was ignored.

“This is Katarina, one of the super soldiers we’ve rescued. We’ve been working with her for the last year, trying to flush the brainwashing out—”

“Why am I here?” He repeated, cutting him off, his voice now dangerously low.

“You’re still an active target,” Tony replied, the words burning in his mouth. He also couldn’t look at him.

He laughed maniacally.

“Oh this is so good! You want to know if you’ve really done your job by using me as a test subject. If she’s not going to come after me.”

“I didn’t want to, but this was Ross’ bargain—”

“Sure, let’s do this. Let’s get this over with.” He walked towards the center of the room where the girl is currently twitching in her seat.

“Where do you want me? Here?”

“Steve—you don’t have to do this—”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’ve already brought me here, right?” He saw Tony take a deep breath before walking towards him. He kept some distance though, not sure if it was out of fear or disgust or whatever.

“I only even considered this because I know you can take her down if it turns out she’s not well yet.” He said, his voice soft and full of apology and desperation.

“And you only have to do this once—then you’re free. You get to walk.”

“And the others?”

“You all get to walk.”

He looked at the smaller man with such intensity the guy flinched and immediately looked away.

“It’s not like I have a choice anyway. Like I said, let’s just get this over with.”

He went back to the center of the room, across the girl. The scientist holding the chart starts whispering in her ears the trigger words. He watched as the girl’s face contorted a million different ways—a whole spectrum of emotions washing over her as her mind is forced to bend one way but pulled back another. He watched her shake her head in fury, then in pain, then in fear and guilt and disgust and then back to fury again, over and over, never letting up as the conflict in her mind rips her apart physically. Then the scientist starts speaking.

“Do you know who that is?” gesturing towards him.

“C-captain America,” her voice was raw from perhaps screaming earlier.

“What are you supposed to do to him?”

“E-eliminate him,” she drawls out.

“And are you going to do that?”

The girl started shaking her head. But in a snap, she screamed—guttural and soul shattering like something inside her was being ripped open and burned shut at the same time. She looked him in the eye as she struggled to keep her body from leaping at him—her instinct and rationale in a battle that might soon knock her out if it keeps up.

It was so small he was pretty sure no one else would catch it. But there it was—a sign. A silent plea.

“Please.” So quiet it could have been a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. As real as the one Bucky made when his memories first came back. In unforgiving waves. A plea to stop it. Because these are not the memories you would want to remember. Being able to forget them is but a small mercy, but even then, is unworthy.

Who would want to wake up and realize you’ve not only lost your life, but have taken countless others, with nary a say in it?

And to realize you’ve been doing this for years. Your family is gone. Everyone you know is gone. Even the families of those you’ve killed are gone.

There’s no else to ask forgiveness from.

No one to atone for.

Bucky was lucky because he had him. He had someone to pull him out of that darkness. To assure him he is nothing but a victim as well. To tell him he is worth saving.

But this girl has no one. And he saw it in her eyes. The recognition that no matter, the nightmares are never going to stop. And she would keep on carrying that burden like an anchor around her neck.

Please.

And he knew what it was she was asking for.

Before anyone knew what was going on, he jumped towards the table, grabbed the gun, and shot the girl point blank.

The effect was instant. Red dots covered him immediately but before any shots were fired the small man stood in front of him. He quickly dropped the gun and raised his hands.

“She deserves death.” Because she did. She deserves to finally find some peace. Because only in death will she find the quiet. Only in death will it truly be over.

He sees the shocked expression on the smaller man’s face. He smirked at him as if saying _I dare you to say otherwise._

Of course, he doesn’t say anything. So he spoke again.

“Run back to Ross like the little lapdog you are and tell him to release the others.”

And then he sat down and waited for someone, anyone to move him. He’d done his part. The others will be free and that’s all that matters.

A week later, he was released. Nat, Sam, Lang and Wanda were released several days ahead of him. Because he was the main attraction of this circus, it made sense for Ross to prolong his agony. But he couldn’t be more wrong. Because the truth is, he was fine staying inside the Raft. It made things less complicated for him. He was told what to do, he didn’t have to think of anything. There was no pressure to be anyone but a washed-up superhero who failed. He thought it was going to be hard but surprisingly, accepting his fate was easier than he imagined.

When you have no one and nowhere to go, acceptance is the only way. It’s not like he didn’t contribute to the outcome of his fate anyway. He was, after all, captain of his own ship. He was the one who steered his own life into a fucking iceberg, crashing everything into the bottom of the ocean. He was the one who told lies, never mind that he thought he was doing what was best for his team. He was the one who made bad decisions, irrevocable ones that cost friendship and lives. He did what he thought he had to do—and this is the price of his decision.

He really, really wants to serve his full sentence.

Maybe then he can assuage even just a fraction of the guilt that’s latched onto him since Bucky died.

Not surprisingly, it is Tony waiting for him at the docks when he landed via helicopter from the Raft.

Once upon time, he thought he had a home to go home to, a family to be a part of. How long has it been since that time? Felt like ages ago. That was a good memory. Good while it lasted. But not enough that he can explain Tony’s continued presence in his life. He knew most of it was guilt. But he’s as guilty of everything that happened too. Unlike Tony, he never wants to see any of them again.

But he doesn’t tell Tony any of this. He doesn’t speak to Tony. If he was expecting some kind of gratitude, he doesn’t have any for him.

He watched as the smaller man tentatively moved towards him. When he was close enough, he handed Steve two bags, a clutch and a duffle.

“Your stuff,” Tony said. And they were. His clothes, his old sketchbook, his passport and atm and bank book. Everything that tied him to his old life.

“Do you have 2 grand?” the other man blinked at him.

“What?”

“2 thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” his tone, cautious. “But why do you need it? We can just stop by an ATM—”

“I need it now.”

Whatever hesitation he had, the younger man swallowed it. Instead, he pulled out his money clip and handed the taller guy 2 thousand dollars.

“Do you need more?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll pay you back when I can,” he said before chucking out his duffle bag, his sketchbook, passport, ATM and bank book. And then he was walking away.

“Steve!”

He doesn’t stop or even acknowledge.

“Steve, stop!”

He’s now gained some distance. He heard Tony enter his car and drive until he’s crawling right beside him.

“At least let me give you a ride,” he pleaded.

But he’s really not in the mood so instead, he looked Tony in the eye, and as casually as he could, spoke.

“Every time I look at you, all I can see is brains—exploding.”

There’s really no coming back from that. So he didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything except watch Steve walk away, having no idea where it’s all gonna go or if, heaven permits, things could still be fixed.


	2. It keeps on moving somehow

_You hold me without touch… you keep me without chain_

He was tracking him from the moment he stepped out of the Raft until, after only a week and half later, his drone must have been spotted, and the trail went dead. It has been dead since. That was several months ago. During the first few months, he tried to tell himself “it’s okay, we’ll find him again,” but he hasn’t yet, therefore his slight (Rhodey says debatable) panic is quite earned at this point.

How do you disappear completely in this day and age?

_You stick to backwaters and erase yourself digitally, that’s how,_ he thought.

Everyone assumed Steve didn’t fully understand this century, but he knew the truth. He knew that Steve has surprisingly learned (and understood cause that’s important) technology quickly and efficiently. He just doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that no one had privacy anymore. That had always been his main complaint.

“It’s disconcerting, having eyes on you all the time,” he used to say. When they were still friends. Contrary to popular belief, he and Steve didn’t just argue. Sure, when it comes to fighting and being a team, verbal sparring was actually normal. But when they’re not subduing villains or saving innocent bystanders, they actually have easy, normal conversations.   
  


Steve came to him one night after he’d read George Orwell’s 1984 after his prodding. He said he understood how, when it came out, the idea of a big brother seems like such a big deal. But now, with the technology, it has become the norm. Of course, the danger is still present. But no one is surprised by the fact that everything about you is but a click of a button away.

So he tried to leave as little digital footprint as possible. He only had one bank account and was only forced to get an ATM because it comes with the account anyway, only had one email and that’s the official Avenger one, only goes online when he absolutely needs to—which is not that often. He only had one cellphone.

And now he had none of those. Ergo his dilemma.

Rhodey says he’s being obsessed. He disagrees, of course. He just wants to make sure Steve’s okay. As atonement for what he did. Rhodey doesn’t buy it but doesn’t bring it up anymore.

Really, he’s fine.

Until he wasn’t because one day, one plain and boring day—the kind that just passes by and no one remembers—Steve decided to drop a bomb on him.

The envelope was waiting for him on his desk. White. No stamps or any marking. Just his name written in that familiar script. _Tony Stark_

In it was 2 thousand dollars. And some change, which he assumed was for interest.

Steve was there. He was there and no one knew. No alarms have been tripped. No signs. Friday hadn’t alerted him, which would mean he found a way to avoid Friday? His head feels like it’s about to explode. Steve was there and he didn’t know. How?

He reviewed the security tapes. If he had used the private elevator meant only for Avengers (used to be anyway), but somehow had managed to disable Friday’s biometric scans (impossible), there would still be CCTV footage of him somewhere. But there was nothing. No Steve Rogers inconspicuously trying to get in the tower. So again, how? How did the money get to his desk? Rhodey, Pepper and Happy all denied doing it. Nat, who has also disappeared off the face of this earth but at least still has her phone and replies just sent him an emoji of the middle finger. Scott was still in house arrest (for a different thing this time). Sam Wilson plainly said, “no, don’t talk to me” before hanging up.

How?

Rhodey mentioned being obsessed again as he pulled on his hair out of frustration. He’s pretty sure he’ll go bald soon with how he’s abusing his scalp. But he couldn’t help it. He’s an engineer. And a genius. When something doesn’t make sense, he needs to strip it bare and study it to figure out what’s wrong. When an envelope with his name on it, written by the one person he’s been looking for for months ends up on his desk and no one has an explanation, he needs to know how it happened.

The answer, it turns out, was pretty simple after all. So simple he laughed about it for a good while, until his stomach ached, and tears were running down his cheeks.

_He used the front door. The fucking front door. Fucking Steve Rogers used the fucking front fucking door._

Steve Rogers walked up to reception and asked one of the receptionists to deliver the envelope. And because this is Steve Rogers, no one thought to question it, no matter how odd the request may have been. He didn’t even need to sign anything to get inside. He was dressed simply, trying to blend in (as if), and perhaps to untrained eyes that would pass. Very attractive guy, but still, just one of us, trying to get through the day. It was why no one thought to look at the security footage of the lobby for the public. He didn’t, not at first. Not until he’s exhausted everything else, and only because, as a genius and as an engineer, gut feel told him to review those footage anyway.

It was so simple. _Yet so cunning._ Because he’s sure Steve knew exactly what he was doing.

The envelope felt heavy on his hands. This was his last connection to Steve. The one that fuels the thought that he’d return. _He has to_. He just needs to get things out of his system like that one time after the Chitauri attack. He’ll be back. And now…

Now he doesn’t have to. Because there’s nothing to go back to. _Not true. There was him_. Before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face, hot and desperate and broken. Why was he crying anyway? Didn’t he tell himself he’s willing to do whatever Steve wants? Clearly he wants to disappear— _and not have anything to do with him at all anymore_.

Rhodey said something about obsession. Maybe he’s right. He needs to stop. He shouldn’t let Steve Rogers control his life. But for all his genius and unlimited resources, the problem remains. He doesn’t know how.

\---

He lost the cap and the jacket on his way back to the rendezvous point. Espionage 101 with Nat had always been one of the things he appreciated. Because for such a familiar face like him, he needs all the help he can get to blend in. And disappear without a trace.

The rendezvous point was actually only a couple of buildings away. But he had to make sure anyway. He had to take the long and complicated way back. If it was just him, he wouldn’t mind much. He’s not a criminal—not legally anymore. No one could hold him back even if they wanted to, and if they knew what’s best for them. But this isn’t just about him anymore.

As soon as he stepped inside the café and saw her look up at him and beam that mega-watt smile of hers, he relaxed, but only just a little. Paranoia doesn’t let up, and so does he.

He quickly walked over to her and held out his hand. And she was in his arms in seconds, clutching at his neck and shirt tightly. He saw the crease on her forehead—she must have been frowning before he came.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she mumbled before burying her face on his neck. Her voice was tiny and scared. It made his chest tight.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, assuringly.

“I’ll always come back for you,” he said. The words were heavy in his mouth. He didn’t like making promises. Because he never liked breaking them whether it was his fault or not. 

_I’m here. I got your back. To the end of the line_. Promises made. Promises broken. He told himself he’ll never say those words again. But when he met her, he just couldn’t help it.

Her. Eve. The tiny little thing in his arms.

He quickly gathered what little things she has on the table, paid the bill, tipped the man behind the counter a little extra for graciously agreeing to keep an eye on her, then left, with her still safely tucked in his arms.

They wove in through the crowds, heads down, eyes alert, until they got to the train station. Having bought their tickets beforehand, all they had to do was wait for their train—which arrived in no less than 5 minutes, just like he planned. He’s still on alert even as the train moved. This journey is far from over. They’ll be transferring a few more times, making sure to move as quickly but stealthily as possible. Somewhere along the way, a change of clothes would be involved.

Later, when they’re on their last train, he’ll allow himself to relax a little. When they’re finally somewhere in the Midwest, surrounded by endless fields of wheat and gold and barley, he’ll close his eyes and rest while Eve plays with her crayons. Her soft humming would put his mind at ease for bit, allowing him some respite from the dark thoughts that have taken permanent lodging in his brain. Before he met her, he never thought he’d be capable of silencing his mind anymore. He never thought he’d be capable of having thoughts other than that fateful day in Siberia.

When he was in the Raft, there was no escaping those thoughts. They consumed him day in and day out. During his first year he almost killed himself going through that day over and over again, trying to figure out where he went wrong and what he could have done to prevent Bucky from dying and Tony from being a murderer. By his second year he gave up and just resigned himself to a lifetime of darkness and self-loathing. By his third year, his dark thoughts were all he’s ever known, and it was like he had been submerged in ice again and when he was pulled out, the life he’d lived was nothing but a painful memory.

No matter what he does, no matter his intention, he always fucks up.

And yet, here he was. With yet another lease on life.

It had been a month of travelling on foot, jumping from one small town to another, when he found her. She was crying, all alone in a makeshift camp by a stream near the road in the middle of nowhere. She was clutching a letter and her small bag which contained a raggedy change of clothes, a bottle of water and some biscuits. Most of them, she’s already eaten.

She couldn’t be more than 5 years old. She stunk, like she hadn’t washed or cleaned up in weeks. Her shoulder length, sandy blonde hair was greasy and stuck to her scalp, along with whole lot of other stuff. Her clothes were dirty and tattered. She looked more like a wildling from that movie Tony had made him watch one time than a little girl.

She jumped, grabbed a stick and pointed it at him when he approached her. Her stance was feral and menacing, but her eyes only had fear.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice as calm as possible. It came naturally to him—in his other life it was one of the things he was well-known for: his calm.

But of course, she didn’t believe him. And he found himself silently praising her. _Good girl_. She had good survival instinct.

He stopped moving several feet away from her. He plopped down on the ground and crossed his legs.

“Mind if I sit here for a moment? I’ve been walking for hours and now I’m hungry. I heard the stream so I thought I could have some water. Is that okay?”

She didn’t move. She didn’t look away. She didn’t bring down the stick she was holding. But she didn’t attack either. So he took out half a loaf of bread, a small block of hard cheese and a pack of beef jerky from his small messenger bag. He saw the way her eyes followed the bread and cheese and meat. He saw her swallow pitifully from hunger, which she couldn’t deny even if she wanted to because just then her stomach grumbled.

He cut into his bread, sliced some cheese and grabbed a small handful of jerky. Then he started eating. She moved, then. Faltered a little, to be exact. But she also quickly got her footing back and continued her guarded stance. He continued eating, continued pretending he’s not minding her. And when finally, enough moment had passed, he offered.

“You want some?”

He could almost see the ongoing battle in her mind. _To eat or not to eat_. He smiled to himself before taking a slice of bread and cheese and meat and placing them on a handkerchief which he placed in front of her on the ground.

“I’m just going to get some water, okay?” He pulled out a water flask from his bag, stood up and headed towards the stream. He heard her grabbing the food as he leaned over to fill his flask. By the time he got back to his seat, the bread and cheese were gone, and she was halfway done with her jerky as well.

He didn’t ask her—he just cut up some more and held them out to her. She tentatively reached out and grabbed the food from his hands. It would be an hour later before she said anything to him.

“Thank you,” she whispered. And because he didn’t want to spook her and because he had all the time in the world, he just said, “you’re welcome” and started cleaning up.

“Y-you’re leaving?!”

He anticipated this. But it still hurt to hear the myriad of emotions in her voice. Betrayal, fear, anger, loneliness.

“Best be on my way before it becomes dark,” he replied. “How about you? You got somewhere else to be?”

She shook her head, a little too quickly.

“Waiting for someone, then?”

Another shake of her tiny head. He considered his next words carefully. He didn’t want to trigger anything, but he also couldn’t just leave it at this. He looked at her, as casually as he could.

“How come?” he asked. He watched her struggle with herself once again. _To tell or not to tell_. She must have felt safe because after a moment, she turned to him, sniffing her unshed tears back, and spoke.

“She left. I-I don’t know where she went,” she stumbled through her words. And then she was in front of him, holding his face with her tiny hands, and looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Mister, can you read? She left me this. Maybe it’s where she went. Can you read this?”

She thrusted the letter she’d been clutching the entire time to him. The paper is nearly decimated from the dirt and tear of being constantly held. But the message is still there.

And it made his blood boil.

_I’m sorry, my love. I hope someday you can forgive me._

“What does it say? Mister, can you take me to her? Please?”

His first instinct, of course, was to lie. To tell her her mother is somewhere waiting for her. That she just needs to be patient and eventually she’ll get to see her again. He’d make it happen too. He’ll find her—track her down and bring her back to her daughter. He’ll make things right.

But seeing as the last time he kept the truth, Bucky died and Tony—he lost Tony too, he decided that lying would only make things worse. So he opted to tell her the truth. Watered down to something her little heart can take, but the truth, nonetheless.

“She says she’s sorry and hope you can forgive her.” They are the same words, but the weight is different. And still they broke her little heart and he had never known such pain.

As she sobbed and wailed, as she repeatedly called out “mama”, as she sunk to the ground, her grubby little knees giving out on her, he felt her take hold of something he thought he’d lost in his years in the Raft.

He never really saw himself as the family man. Someone told him once, Ultron, that he existed only for war. He never admitted it, but deep inside, he knew it was true. When he’s fighting, he finds purpose. And it’s not really so he could go home and live a normal life and have a family. It was always about looking for the next fight, the next battle, the next war.

But in just one moment, all of that changed. When he knelt and took her in his arms, he knew, from then on, that she will be all he will fight for. Nothing and no one would ever mean as much to him as she does. For the first time in years, he felt his heart beat again.


	3. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late. Took a holiday break. Hopefully I can post weekly from here on.

_Set me free, leave me be, I don’t want to fall another moment into your gravity_

He’d slipped.

The moment he heard that unfamiliar noise coming from his kitchen, he knew, immediately, that he’d slipped. Three years of running and hiding, gone, just because he grew complacent? Why was he even hiding in the first place? Wasn’t he free to do as he pleased? He knew why but that wasn’t important right now. What’s important is that the last man he ever wanted to see was standing in the middle of his small kitchen in the dark.

“I finally found you,” the shorter man said.

“Get out,” he said, his voice sharp.

“You’re not even going to ask why I’m here?” he could hear the plea.

“Not interested. Get out. Before I take you out myself.” He knew the shorter man would get the threat.

“We need you—”

“Get. Out.” He watched as the other guy grasped for words. He knew he’s being careful, whatever he says next will either get him beat up or change his mind. But it didn’t really matter. Nothing would change his mind.

“Steve, please.”

He felt the air shift behind him a second too late.

“D-dad?”

Ignoring the feeling that he’d been doused by icy water, he quickly turned and picked up his daughter, _yes, that’s who she is now,_ careful to hide her face and stepped back into his room. He deposited her near the closet where their bug out bags and important documents are kept for quick escape. He signalled for her to keep quiet and wordlessly she understood. She quickly hid. And then he was back in the hallway, looking at the man who was still frozen where he left him.

“Get out,” he repeated. The man gaped, trying to find words and when he finally did, it wasn’t his finest but at least direct to the point.

“Don’t leave. Don’t leave this place. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“Sorry, your words don’t hold a lot of currency to me.”

“I just want to fix things. Please, let me.”

Instead of answering, he stalked over to the man, grabbed him by his arms and dragged him out the front door. He threw him out with force—held back by a lot only because he didn’t want to kill him, but still enough to leave bruises. Then he slammed the door shut. Seconds later, he’s back in his room, hugging Eve, and planning their escape.

\---

Daughter. He had a _daughter?!_

How? Why? And how? He didn’t really see much of her that night but she looked to be around 8 or 9. Almost dead ringer for him too. Blond hair, blue eyes. They had the same mannerisms and same nuances. There was little of him on her face though—probably got her looks from her mother. But he couldn’t know for sure. Still, she was too old for any of this to make sense. Did he have her before the whole Siberia thing? Shit! _Did he unknowingly take a child’s dad away and WHY DID NO ONE KNOW ABOUT THIS!?!_ Not Nat, not Sam (at least he thinks that what they meant when they answered his inquiries). He called them, and Nat didn’t answer but she sent a message that said “no” and the middle finger emoji. Sam said the exact same thing but with words. _No. Fuck you_. How does he have a daughter?

He didn’t know what to do with the information.

And who the hell was (is?) the mother anyway!? He knew Steve wasn’t a monk, but he was quite vocal that there wasn’t anyone special every time someone (mostly him) broached the subject. So where did he find time to impregnate a random girl (it had to be) and how did he manage to hide it for so long? He never gave any indication that he was hiding something (well, except that one thing that led to the other thing that led them to this situation between them). Seriously, why couldn’t this have been the secret that was sprung on him instead of the other one?

And where the hell is the mother? It doesn’t look like she’s still in the picture. According to the surveillance footage from the 6 drones, 2 satellite and several androids he’s set around the perimeter of the house by the lake that Steve currently occupied with his _daughter_ , (see, he didn’t really break his promise when he said he won’t tell anyone; robots and AI don’t count), there’s only Steve and the little girl. No woman ever came.

Actually, no one ever came. Since he was there, no one else came. Steve and the girl would leave in the morning before 7. Steve would drop the girl off at the local school. Then he’d proceed to the local quarry where he worked as a foreman (oh if they only knew what they’re missing) and then pick up his kid then go home. During weekends they stayed in. The only time they deviated from this routine was when they stopped by the farmer’s market to pick up their supplies at the end of the week. No groceries, not even convenience stores for them. Still part of the leaving no digital footprint behind. Why is he so hellbent in disappearing anyway? Well, the kid at least explained some of that. He obviously wanted to keep her a secret. But why?

At least he’s not escaping—yet. He was pretty sure Steve was going to run the moment he stepped out (or was shoved, depending on his mood while thinking of that day but he absolutely refuses to admit he was thrown out) of his house, but he’s still there, with his _daughter_ , 3 weeks later. On hindsight, he really should have known better.

Because this is Steve. Master tactician. And forever a pain in his ass, though admittedly one he can’t live without ( _now where did that come from?_ ).

Of course there was a tunnel.

Because of course he built the house.

When Monday came and no Steve and _daughter_ came out, he didn’t immediately panic. Maybe she was just sick and didn’t feel like going to school. Then Tuesday happened. Of course by then it had been several days since they’ve gone. And then there also was a note.

_Stop looking for me._

He was so busy covering the front door this time he forgot about tunnels. He had to laugh at himself for missing it (at this point Rhodey mentioned about being obsessed again). Steve was running circles around him and all he can do is delude himself that he’s gained some of that distance between them. That he’d somehow make some progress. 

So now he’s back to square one. It would be another six months before he saw them again. And it wasn’t even because of anything he’d done. It was all because of this big, hairy, giant alien ballsack named Thanos.


End file.
